


Full Circle

by Afrokot



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gen, Inspired by Edge of Tomorrow, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8846380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afrokot/pseuds/Afrokot
Summary: The first time Bilbo dies, it happens in a cave deep in the Misty Mountains.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Bilbo dies, it happens in a cave deep in the Misty Mountains. The air is damp and stale, and it adds an unpleasant taste to the salty blood from his split lip. Dizzy and disoriented, Bilbo isn’t as fast as he should be when he draws his sword. The terrible creature, Gollum, pelts him with rocks, muttering to itself about all the ways it will cook Bilbo, its spindly arms possessing deceptive strength for its malnourished body. And while Bilbo cringes and dodges as best he can, he is too slow. His vision swims, and the cave floor buckles under his feet. One of the rocks hits true, colliding with Bilbo’s temple.

The last thought he has is about the curious little ring he put in his pocket.

Bilbo wakes up. He stretches, luxuriating in the feel of soft bedding, and opens his eyes. Sunlight peeks through the round window of his bedroom. He breathes in the scent of bluebells and daisies he remembers picking the day before Gandalf and his grand idea to send him on the mad journey—

Bilbo bolts out of bed, his heart beating like war drums in the Goblin Kingdom. “The quest!”

 _It must have been a dream,_ he decides. _Yes, yes, just a dream. Nothing more._

Slowly, Bilbo pads through his home, fingers trailing over the walls, book spines on the shelves, the polished surface of the dining table, reassuring himself of reality. He makes a cup of tea and sits in his favourite armchair, warming his hands on the thin ceramic and watching the tea leaves unfold.

When Gandalf shows up and blocks the sun, looming over Bilbo with all his Man height and a pointy hat besides, Bilbo drops his pipe.

He doesn’t want to go on any quests. He goes anyway.

This time, he kills Gollum first. He wanders through the caves for weeks, hopelessly lost. He finds an underground lake and tries to catch fish, but without a rod, it is a fruitless endeavour.

In desperation, he eats the mushrooms growing near a small pond. Their caps are slimy and bitter, but Bilbo stuffs himself on them anyway like they are special seed cakes his mama used to make for his nameday. He spends the next few days puking his guts out and unable so much as to stand up. On hands and knees, he crawls to the pond and drinks, gulping dirty water despite it leaving a gritty residue on his palms. His stomach hurts like Bilbo is being stabbed with every breath he takes. Curling into a ball, he prays to the Valar for it to end. He dreams of sunlight and his full pantry.

Sometimes, Bilbo hears the voices of the Company. Once, Gandalf sits beside him and makes a flower crown, braiding pond lilies with seaweed. When he finishes, the wizard places it on Bilbo’s head. His father appears next. Bungo says nothing, but for the first time in the deep, dark cave, Bilbo smiles. The stretch of skin feels foreign on his face, but he doesn’t stop. He licks damp stone floor to moisten his lips, too weak to raise his hands. His tongue is dry and scratchy and too big for his mouth. A strange sound escapes his throat, and Bilbo realises that he is laughing. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs until he doesn’t while Gandalf and Bungo watch him with kind eyes.

He dies of dehydration several days later.

The third time, Bilbo doesn’t even make it past the trolls. He is so bloody shaken and terrified that he manages to antagonise the entire Company. So much so that when the trolls threaten to rip him apart, the dwarves aren’t in a hurry to comply and put down their weapons. The pain is excruciating but thankfully brief.

The fourth time he doesn’t go at all. When Gandalf comes, he flat out refuses to go on any and all adventures. Bilbo has had enough excitement to last him several lifetimes, thank you kindly. Of course, the bloody wizard ignores his words and scratches his door anyway.

 _Well,_ Bilbo thinks, throwing a change of clothes and supplies for a week-long trip into his backpack, _they can wait on my porch till the cows come home, for all I care._ He fastens the clasps with jerky movements and stuffs his pipe into a pocket of his breeches, intending to have a smoke on the way. He leaves through the back door, calling out to Hamfast and saying he plans to visit his relatives in Tookborrow.

As soon as he is past the Hill, Bilbo stops and light his pipe, waits until he is sure that nobody can see him. He turns left and hikes all the way back and into the woods lying Overhill. _Good luck finding me there!_

A week later, he returns home much calmer and with a sack full of mushrooms. He gives it to the Gamgees, not leaving any for himself. While he still likes them in theory, Bilbo is reasonably sure he won’t be able to eat any mushrooms for a bloody long time.

Old coot Dodinas down at the Bagshot Row complains at the ruckus the dwarves had made when they didn’t find Bilbo, and Lobelia shoots pointed barbs at his lack of hospitality. But life goes on as it always does, and soon, the birth of Bell Proudfeet’s thirteenth grandchild and the preparations for Summer Harvest Festival are the topics hobbits gossip about.

As months go by, Bilbo stops looking at the shadows with suspicion. Resolutely, he puts the dwarves out of his mind.

One autumn evening, after visiting with the Baggins side of his family and enduring the Sackville-Baggins’ cooking, Bilbo goes to bed early. He drinks ginger tea to settle nausea and hopes that a good night’s sleep will help with the deep ache in his stomach. He drifts off to the sound of wind howling in the pipes and rain pelting the earth with oceans worth of water.

Bilbo wakes up clammy and too hot, his legs tangled in the sheets. His room smells of bluebells and daisies. Outside his window, birds are chirping a morning song and summer sun is cheerfully bright in the cloudless sky.

Grabbing his pillow and pressing it against his face, Bilbo screams until he can’t anymore. His throat is raw, and he feels like lying down on the floor and never getting up. Instead, he plods to the kitchen and fixes himself a cuppa. His hands are shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~This ficlet might or might not grow into something more lengthy at a distant point in time. It probably will.~~ The idea took my brain hostage and threaten to eat it until I wrote this down. If you like the result, please leave a comment.


	2. Chapter 2

All morning, Bilbo camps outside, sitting on his bench and smoking. He misses Second Breakfast and forgets about Elevenses. When Gandalf’s silhouette shows at the end of the Bagshot Row, he jumps and runs to the wizard. Gandalf’s eyebrows shoot up, and he smiles at Bilbo’s enthusiastic greeting.

“Come, come,” Bilbo says. His knuckles are white as he tugs the wizard along by the sleeve of his robe. “I have a story to tell.”

Inside his smial, Bilbo directs Gandalf to the only Man-sized chair he owns and hides in the kitchen, puttering with cups and saucers, looking for scones he meant to bake but didn’t. He goes to slice bread and drops the knife — it lands too close to his toes — and stops, suddenly unable to breathe. Gasping, Bilbo folds in on himself, but no matter how hard he tries, his lungs don’t work, refusing to suck in air. Dark spots dance across his vision. _Oh, Eru, not again_ , he thinks and passes out.

Bilbo comes to lying in his bed, and for a moment, he is afraid that it’s early morning all over again, but the light is all wrong and a damp cloth is cooling his forehead. He sighs in relief and meets a troubled gaze of his guest, keeping vigil beside him.

“What happened, my dear Bilbo?” Gandalf asks, and words tumble out of Bilbo’s mouth like grain out of a holey bag.

Gandalf listens with a pensive expression on his lined face. His brows furrow at the mention of the ring, but he keeps silent. As the story comes to its end — this very morning — the wizard nods. For several minutes, he is motionless, his eyes distant and clouded, and Bilbo holds his breath. Everything is quiet and still; the midday sun is painting half the floor in golden hues, and if not for the light breeze playing with the curtains, Bilbo would think the room frozen in time. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting, he hears Gandalf’s sigh and looks up.

The wizard says, “It is an odd tale, indeed, my friend. I would like nothing more than to offer you a reassurance” — his voice is soft and grave at the same time, and Bilbo’s heart sinks into his stomach — “but I’ve never heard of anything like this.” A large hand lands on Bilbo’s knee, warm even through the thin blanket, pats it twice. “I think you should continue with the quest. Perhaps, it is your destiny to complete it. Valar willing, you will find a way out.” Another sigh, and Gandalf offers him a small smile. “And meanwhile, we will search for a solution in Rivendell.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as Gandalf’s smile widens, turns mischievous. Bilbo can’t help it — his lips twitch up too. “Lord Elrond’s library is one of the best in Middle Earth, and he is an elf of great wisdom…”

Bilbo nods, his head bobbing fast and shallow. “Yes, yes. Of course, you are right, as always.”

Gandalf gets to his feet. “I will return later. Though” — he chuckles — “you already know all about that.” He adds a wink and, as Bilbo climbs out of his bed, picks up the staff he leant on the wall near the corner. It thuds on the floor with every other step the wizard makes, the sound quiet and a little hollow.

“Until later,” Gandalf repeats, turning to wave at Bilbo in the doorway.

“Yes, yes.” Bilbo nods again, his head feeling light and like it’s floating. “I’ll need to make preparations for dinner.”

The company comes later than Bilbo expects but in one large group, Gandalf leading the dwarves together with Thorin. Like all the previous times, the king gives Bilbo a condescending once-over, looking down his prominent nose, and asks about his preferred weapon.

“I’m not good with a sword,” Bilbo says mildly, and all the dwarves have a comment they must voice. He waits till they stop, nails biting the meat of his palms deeper and deeper, leaving rows of crescent indentations. He licks his lips. “But as I understand it, you need a burglar, not a warrior.” He swallows with difficulty; his throat is too dry. “And that I can be.”

After a long, hard look, Thorin finally nods and turns to Gandalf. “You promised food?..”

The company takes it as approval, and the chaos begins.

At first, the journey goes well enough, and Bilbo is cautiously optimistic. He still sneezes at Myrtle, but allergies aren’t something he has any control over. So he pats the pony’s neck and sneaks her apples in apology. He buys rain gear in Bree and advises the Company to do the same. The dwarves mutter among themselves about the weather being fine and ‘what does a halfling know about travelling,’ but Gandalf backs him up. This time, when the rain starts, nobody sleeps in soaked through clothes.

Every time they need to make a stop, Bilbo anticipates it and, riding up to the wizard, points out the best places to camp. After the third time it happens, Balin asks him over their meagre — by Hobbit standards — dinner.

“Do you travel often, then, Master Bilbo?”

Bilbo looks up from his bowl, a spoon half-way to his mouth. He feels wrong-footed, caught off-guard. So far, only Gandalf has talked to him directly, the rest of the Company preferring to send him sidelong glances. “Um…” He blinks, eyelashes flying down twice in short order. “You could say that, yes.”

Balin nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and Bilbo hurries to get back to his food, hunching over the bowl to keep it away from the rain. The stew isn’t getting any warmer. Bilbo has been cold for long enough to let even the smallest amount of heat dissipate.

As they move closer and closer to the trolls, he continues with his little predictions. A change in weather, a bountiful spot for fishing when they cross a river or a stream, a herb that Kíli slips into Bombur’s pot as a joke and that would see them all suffering upset stomachs if not for Bilbo’s warning. It’s going on and on, little things that could be explained by themselves, but put together create a peculiar picture.

What first was seen as a strange but ultimately harmless quirk of the hobbit now is met with suspicion and furious whispers behind his back. Bilbo doesn’t care for the names they call him.

He warns them about the trolls and in return gets narrow-eyed stares. Gandalf, however, insists on camping farther afield and stays with the group. The dwarves keep watch in threes and twos. The night passes uneventful, and Gandalf disappears with predawn to come back with the news of the trolls’ defeat at the morning light.

Bilbo tugs at his sleeve, tells him in a hushed tone about the hoard with elven weapons they will find. The dwarves pretend not to listen, but confronted with the unmistakable sight of three stone figures and the exact same swords Bilbo described — a definite proof, if there is any — they give him a wider berth than usual, the whispers of ‘oracle’ and ‘halfling witch’ gaining ominous weight. Gandalf frowns in their direction. The bushes rustle. As one, the dwarves go for their weapons. Sting hangs on Bilbo’s hip. Its weight is half-familiar and thus all the more uncomfortable. He doesn’t touch its hilt. The ponies snort, dig the ground with impatient hooves, uneasy with the stench wafting out of the trolls’ cave.

The Brown Wizard rushes into the clearance on his sledge, and Bilbo is forgotten.

Riding is faster than travelling on foot, but even their ponies, spurred by the angry howls, can’t outrun the wargs. The elves find them first. Arrows fly over Bilbo’s head and pained whines join the growls of their pursuers. While dwarves dismount and take the fight, he hugs Myrtle for dear life and waits for the battle to end in their favour. If sneers and disdainful looks he later receives are anything to go on, his actions do nothing to endear him to the Company. Bilbo pretends not to care.

In Rivendell, when Bilbo talks with him, Lord Elrond remembers Belladonna fondly. He’s given the same room she used to stay in on her visits and permission to use the library to his heart’s content. Stepping into an airy, light, and spacious bedroom with — he guesses — child-sized furniture, perfect for a hobbit, Bilbo remembers the dwarven camaraderie of his first stay in The Last Homely House East of The Sea. Even if he was excluded from it, kept on the outskirts, his place was beside them. A fist squeezes his heart, and resolutely, he slams the door behind him while members of the Company trudge past.

Bilbo refreshes himself in the bathing chambers. When the rumbling of his stomach gets louder than his thoughts, he knows it’s time for dinner. At his approach, the dwarves — all at once, as if following an unspoken command — move to block any free space on their ends of two long benches, so there’s not enough room for a fly. They look the other way. He holds back a sigh and sits next to Gandalf, close to their host. The dwarves ignore him, resuming their grumblings and complaints, but the skin on the back of Bilbo’s neck itches. He knows unfriendly glares when they are directed his way. On his left, Gandalf’s expression darkens. At the head of the table, a slight frown mars Lord Elrond’s smooth, ageless face.

On Gandalf’s urging, the next morning Bilbo seeks out Lord Elrond and tells him about his situation. For a long time, the elf is silent, a faraway look in his unfathomable eyes as he contemplates the tale. Bilbo follows his gaze to the horizon. A clear blue sky meets the tops of the trees as far as his eyes can see. The rushing of water and susurrus of leaves on the breeze fail to soothe his spirit.

“This magic is unknown to me. I’m sorry,” Lord Elrond says, at last, cutting into the sounds of nature, and Bilbo’s thundering heart stops, skips a beat, and plummets into his stomach.

He wets his lips. _It was too much to hope anyway,_ he thinks as bitter disappointed floods him. He bows to the elf. “Thank you for your time.”

The elf turns to him, rests a hand on the railing of the balcony, his long, white fingers contrasting with the dark grey of the stone. “I’ve noticed you don’t get along with your companions.”

Bilbo snorts without humour, briefly glancing up. “To put it mildly.”

Lord Elrond hums. “I’ve heard that hobbits value the comforts of home.” He pauses, and Bilbo’s heart speeds up — a rabbit caught in his chest or a bird trying to get free. “You are very welcome to stay here.”

Bilbo nods, thanks him, murmurs, “I will consider it.”

The days go by. He marks them with meals taken alone in the kitchen and the number of yellowed scrolls and weighty tomes that tower around him in the library. These times, only the whispers of turning pages and near silent footsteps of the librarian compete to disturb his concentration.

A week after midsummer, longing for a change of scenery, Bilbo joins their host at dinner and discovers that he is the only one staying. The dwarves raided a large kitchen pantry and disappeared without goodbye on midsummer’s morrow. Gandalf, according to Lord Elrond, assumed that Bilbo was with them and left the same day to follow. In a way, Bilbo is glad. He has more time to peruse the library.

The leaves turn yellow and red, fall to the ground, dry and brittle. The shadows lengthen and darkness comes faster. The clothes Bilbo brought with him hang loose on his thinning frame. Sitting in his usual nook under a narrow arch of a window, he lights the candles earlier and reads until the words blur, dancing like miniature fairies on fading yellow fields. He sighs and rubs his closed eyelids. His stomach rumbles, but he is too tired to move. The books and the scrolls hold no answer.

He falls asleep in the silence, the librarian and other patrons long gone, a page creasing under his cheek and dusty, papery smell in his nose.

Bilbo wakes up to the sunlight caressing his face and the aroma of bluebells and daisies in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited on the verge of passing out. See a mistake? Point at it and claim a well of my gratitude and appreciation!


	3. Chapter 3

His sixth repetition, Bilbo doesn’t reach Rivendell. He doesn’t change much from the first try, playing a slightly more willing and prepared host to the Company but otherwise keeping his distance. Every time he looks at the dwarves, he hears their whispers, full of distrust and aimed to hurt, even though their lips are closed. The echoes of the last iteration keep his mouth shut. Bilbo does buy appropriate gear, however, and is the only one not soaking through when the rain starts. He takes a gleeful pleasure in the sight of his waterlogged companions.

He refuses to go anywhere near the trolls.

“Nori is more skilled in this sort of thing,” Bilbo tells the royal heirs, crossing his arms over his chest and digging in his heels. The stench alone is enough to dissuade him from even making an attempt. A memory of unbearable pain makes an unwelcome comeback, and Bilbo shudders. He won’t budge unless they pick him up and throw him at the monsters.

Kíli’s expression and the glint in his eyes say he’s considering doing just that. Bilbo glares at him and sidesteps back into the bushes. On light feet, he runs all the way to the camp to deliver the news.

“Trolls?” Thorin spits out, his face like a thundercloud. “And the damned wizard chose to take a walk just when we need him!”

Dwalin brandishes his axes. “We can take them on.”

“Now, brother,” Balin says, “it might not be the best idea.”

The Company dissolves into an argument, but in the end, as Bilbo expected, Nori is elected for the rescue. He doesn’t disappoint, saving all but three ponies. The trolls, never the smartest creatures of Middle Earth, blame each other for the loss and their confrontation comes to blows. When morning light touches the tree crowns, bringing Gandalf along with it, sunlight freezes them into statues — two sitting on the ground, clutching their injured limbs, and the last sprawled across the clearing. He didn’t regain consciousness after a particularly vigorous hit on the head.

The dwarves cheer and dive into the cave to search for treasures. Gandalf presents Bilbo with Sting. In the commotion of Radagast’s sudden arrival, as warg’s howls fill the air, the ponies bolt, and again, like the first time, the members of the Company have to run for their lives.

Bilbo’s short legs carry him as fast as they can, but he barely keeps up with Ori and Nori. Something must have gone wrong: half of the orc’s party ignores the Brown wizard. Glancing over his shoulder, Bilbo almost stumbles at the sight of enormous wolf-like creatures and their riders — too close to outrun.

Nori notices that, too. He pushes his sibling to the nearest tree, muttering, “Come on, come on, up you go,” his fingers spasming on his weapon.

And while Bilbo doesn’t believe it will do any good, he has to try. He climbs after Ori. “The elves will be here soon,” he whispers under his breath.

The wargs’ paws cover the distance before Bilbo can finish his ascent. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nori swinging his mace. He hugs the tree trunk, pulling himself up with all his strength.

Sharp pain slashes the back of his right leg as a large jaw closes over it like a steel trap. Bilbo screams. He doesn’t know where Nori’s gone to, where any other member of the Company is. Later, Bilbo will remember Ori pelting the wargs with stones, but now, as his arms slide over the rough bark losing purchase, the stinging in his palms like mosquito bites, all he registers are the cracks in the dry earth in the moment before his face smashes against it, a warg pulling him down. Tasting blood, and dust, and bits of shrivelled leaves, he hears pained cries filling the air. An animal whines. Gandalf’s voice booms, but Bilbo can’t make out the words.

He goes for Sting as if that’d be much help. Hot, moist breath stinking of rotten meat and decay washes over the side of his face. Another jaw clamps onto his arm, teeth cutting flesh to the bone, and all he knows is agony. He doesn’t scream himself hoarse only because he doesn’t live long enough to do so. Consciousness deserts him when one of the wargs dig into his stomach.

Bilbo wakes up in his out bed, legs kicking off his blanket as he scrambles to sit with his back to the headboard. A trapped sparrow throws itself against the cage of his ribs. His body aches with residual echoes of pain. The sunlight and fragrant smells of flowers do nothing to calm him down. He hugs himself, fingers clutching his shoulders to the point of bruising, and shakes.

“I can do it, I can do it, I can do it,” Bilbo mutters again and again. He needs to get to the Rivendell library.

The knock on his front door thunders hours later, shattering the silence. Bilbo flinches, staring at the doorway leading out of his room as if Gandalf can see him through all this distance and wood besides. Maybe he can. He is a wizard.

Eventually, Bilbo pulls himself out of bed, goes about his day. Gandalf, of course, is long gone, but Bilbo knows with the certainty only he possesses that by nightfall, his home will be invaded. He isn’t wrong.

This go around, he is an even worse company for the dwarves, not that it makes any difference. He’s subdued and doesn’t offer much of a conversation when Balin asks him about his travelling experience. The only thing keeping him going is the thought of research. There are so many books he hasn’t read. _Surely_ , Bilbo thinks, _one of them holds the answer_. Surely.

Near the destroyed farm, he spurs Myrtle into speeding up until she goes head-to-head with Gandalf’s horse and clears his throat.

“Hello, Bilbo. A pleasant day, isn’t it?”

Grey clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, blot out the setting sun. The temperature dropped during the night. A piercing wind sneaks its fingers under Bilbo’s collar. He shivers.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, voice full of doubt. He beacons for Gandalf to lean down. With an inquiring look, the wizard complies. “I’ve heard rumours,” Bilbo says, “about people disappearing around these parts.” He chances a glance back and meets the dwarven king’s scowl. “You saw the farm we’ve just passed. What happened, it wasn't like that a month ago.”

A frown settles between Gandalf’s eyebrows. “This is troubling.” He straightens in his saddle and Bilbo shifts in his. “Oh, but do not worry, my friend. Whatever the danger is, I will be there to protect you.” The corners of his mouth turn up with good-natured humour, and Gandalf pats his shoulder. Bilbo forces his lips into an answering smile.

The warmth of the wizard’s hand lingers long after Bilbo has returned to his customary place; the promise, however, feels solid like a soap bubble.

With Gandalf warned of the danger, they easily avoid the trolls, going farther than usual. Of course, some of the dwarves insist on fighting them, Fíli and Kíli most vocally, but Gandalf refuses, and with the support of the older generation, the matter is settled. In the morning, he deals with Tom, Bert, and William himself. Bilbo considers how many different poses he’s seen them take and laughs with what must be the gallows humour.

This time, he makes sure the ponies are properly tied. It doesn't change the outcome. Urging Myrtle to run faster, he leans forward, hugging her neck and hoping to make himself smaller. The pace is brutal. His thighs, unaccustomed to the saddle, flare with pain on every step. Myrtle’s mane surges up, tickles his face, and Bilbo sneezes. His eyes water and his nose is about to leak. He feels the shudder that shakes her whole body a moment before her front legs buckle when a spear hits her flank.

His pony pins him to the ground, too heavy for Bilbo to crawl from under her; his bones are broken. Warm blood spurts from the wound in Myrtle’s side, mixing with his own. Lying on the scabbard, his sword impossible to reach, all he can do is wait for a quick death, panting and whimpering. A toothy, grey-skinned monster delivers it with a slash of a rusty scimitar across his throat.

With a shout, Bilbo bolts upright. The softness of his mattress is a sharp contrast to the hard ground of the previous moment, but his breath stutters in his chest. His heart beats as if preparing to explode. He tries to stand and crashes to the floor, trapped in the blanket.

Laying there, his mouth full of dust — he needs to clean under the bed more often — and all of his right side aching, his face scrunches into a grimace. Moisture slides across the bridge of his nose, gets into his ear.

“I can’t,” Bilbo moans later. The sun rays have left his bed and moved to the wardrobe. His skin feels tight and salty. “Not anymore. Please, why won’t it end? Just end it already?!” He turns onto his stomach and bangs his fists against the floor until they hurt, hits it with his forehead, kicks with his knees. And all the while tears fall on the wood, collecting in decades-old scratches.

He spends the day in a fog. If Gandalf comes — of course, he does — Bilbo doesn’t hear him knocking.

Going around the smial, gathering supplies into his mother’s battered backpack, Bilbo’s mind is perfectly blank. He knows what he has to do, what food and how much of it to cook. His hands wash, and slice, and dice, and when the dwarves come, the table in the living room is covered with dishes.

He doesn’t say a needless word aside from greetings and signs the contract without questions.

On the road, Bilbo fluctuates between flinching at every loud noise and lapsing into silences when his attention wanders, staring into the distance with unseeing eyes. _The library,_ his mind insists, _the library is where you need to go._ He nods, agreeing, and doesn’t see the looks the dwarves give him.

The whispers among the Company that he is loony, not quite there grow louder. He doesn’t care.

When Gandalf stalks off in a huff, leaving the camp for the night, Bilbo doesn’t think at all. Nobody asks him to deliver the food to the royal siblings. He spends the time watching flaming tongues change shapes as they dance in the fire.

The shouts take him by surprise. Bilbo flinches, hugs his knees to his chest, and hunches his shoulders. He doesn’t know that trolls eat Ori and Nori and Kíli. They maim those who offer the most resistance — Dori, Dwalin, and Thorin. The dwarven king dies by morning, missing a few limbs and a lot of blood.

He will find out later. For now, Bilbo stays at the campsite, palms pressed to his ears, and hums him mother’s lullaby to tune out the screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. If you see a mistake, please, point it out.


	4. Chapter 4

The quest breaks down, barely begun. With half the Company dead, Gandalf’s rousing words fall flat. The dwarves, mourning their relatives and friends, refuse to listen and turn around. Bilbo watches them go, feeling numb. He knows they won’t survive the orcs and wargs. It doesn’t matter.

“Well, Bilbo,” Gandalf says, his voice heavy. His shoulders are bent as if the weight of the Misty Mountains dropped on him overnight. “Just you and me. What say you to a trip to Rivendell?”

That was the plan. _The library._ Bilbo nods and follows the wizard.

* * *

His stay with the elves is pleasant and uneventful. Lord Elrond gives Bilbo unreadable glances as he listens to the wizard’s tale, but Bilbo doesn’t mind. As long as he is allowed to peruse the ancient tomes he came to Rivendell seeking, all else is a secondary matter.

He spends his days reading in a quiet corner, sunlight slanting across the pages through the open window at his back. From time to time, a fresh cup of tea appears at his elbow, a blueberry scone or a lemon tart — his favourite childhood sweet treats — keeping it company. Bilbo meets them with muted surprise. He knows from the previous visit that the librarian here is stringent in his adherence to the rules, and ‘no food around books’ is a significant regulation.

The elves pity him, Bilbo decides, the _poor traumatised halfling._ Their murmurs, lilting voices filling the hallways like gently babbling brooks of Bindbole Wood, wash over him as Bilbo drifts to and from his room in the early morning or late at night, his thoughts foggy and gaze clouded. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder why he is never left alone. It doesn’t occur to his hosts to wonder if he is starting to grasp their language, either.

As evening shadows come faster and the air grows colder while the sun weakens and fails to warm, the sections of the library with books written in Westron Bilbo hasn’t touched dwindle in number. And then, one autumn day, he crawls into bed in Rivendell, the bedding silky-soft and pillow cloud-like under his cheek, and wakes up in his own bedroom.

The journey starts anew. Again and again, Bilbo goes through the cycle. He greets the Company with relief, reluctance, warmth, and, finally, indifference, not interested in conversations he can repeat verbatim. Besides, they won’t remember him come next attempt, and it will come like the inevitable change of seasons. He has a goal: find a solution, a way out, whatever it may be. Most times, he reaches Rivendell. Sometimes he doesn’t.

He dies and dies and watches the others die — by trolls or wargs or orcs and once of sickness. The trolls smash Ori. An enraged, grief-stricken Dori manages to kill Bert all by himself before Tom falls on him. They eat Bombur, and Bofur and Bifur end up a collection of limbs. A warg gets to Kíli and rips out his throat before the archer can take a shot. Thorin and Dwalin dice the beast into a thinly sliced fillet. It doesn’t matter, so Bilbo does nothing to interfere. He is a silent bystander, the only solid being wandering the land of shadows. It does not matter, for the dead will rise and find their way to his doorstep one late Astron evening.

When Bilbo survives for long enough, he strides to Rivendell with single-minded purpose. And in the end, as Halimath advances, he slips into his bed — and after many repetitions, it is _his_ bed, _his_ room, and Rivendell is _almost home_ — and… The smells of bluebells and daisies, sunlight across his face. Restart.

Books have no answers, he discovers. He read them all, Westron and Sindarin and Quenya, and nothing ever mentions a time loop. The fervour of the earlier visits changes to desperation, to depression, to apathy, to determination, to resignation, and stops at being a routine. After a while — it might be months or years or decades, he doesn't know; he lost the count of the cycles after twenty — Bilbo notices a pattern. When he survives, the time resets itself on Halimath 16. He marks the date, and writes the timeline of the first journey as best he can remember, and finally arrives at a conclusion: the reason it all started is—

“The ring!” Bilbo starts, the sound of his voice unnaturally loud in the hushed library. He glances left and right, but nobody is around. This time, the Company arrived in its whole. “Of course,” he murmurs after a moment, brimming with excitement. Only when he had the ring — that curious little trinket — did he live longer, or so it seems; his memories of the time under the Misty Mountains aren’t the most reliable. He can’t keep still and breaks into a jig, laughter bubbling like sparkling wine on his tongue. It doesn’t last for long.

“All right,” he says as exhilaration abates, replaced with cold reality of a daunting task before him, “back to business.” And, heaving a sigh, he looks at the mountainous bookcases. He does remember meeting a mention of jewellery… Somewhere.

Days pass. The Company departs, and so does Gandalf while Bilbo hides. By then, he has avoiding people down to an art form. For all of Afterlithe, he reads and reads, and finally, the only hint he finds — by chance — is hidden in a ballad.

“One ring to rule them all,” Bilbo says, tracing the lines of text with the tip of his finger. He read or maybe heard somewhere that as long as it exists, Sauron is immortal. “This must be it.” Dread coils in his stomach. He had a piece of the Dark Lord — his power or soul — in his grasp. Bilbo shudders. He needs to get it and destroy it, melt it. _Surely, a dragon’s fire is hot enough for the task._

With this new goal, Bilbo redoubles his efforts. He is a perfect host — again — and dwarves find nothing to complain about. His lifted mood and helpful attitude incline the members of the Company to extend a hand in friendship. Two days after leaving Bree, Bilbo is joking with Bofur, the royal siblings listening in and joining on occasion. A week into the journey, and he discusses history with Ori, tea blends with Dori, and shares his favourite recipes with Bombur.

The trolls are left for Gandalf; they outrun the wargs and orcs — the elves show up in time — and reaching Rivendell, Bilbo is tentatively hopeful. _I’ll get the ring and travel all the way to Erebor, and soon it will be over,_ he thinks on the eve of Mid-year’s Day, sipping a fragrant elven wine, liberally mixed with water. But life, as it often happens, never follows plans.

There are, he discovers, so many ways to kill a hobbit. He falls off a mountainside that turned into a leg of a Stone Giant. Somehow with all the repetitions, Bilbo has forgotten about them, an oversight he is unlikely to repeat. For once, Eru shows mercy: his head hits an outcropping long before he reaches the ground.

He makes it to Goblin-town. His fall into its deepest caves has an unfortunate landing. With a broken spine — he doesn’t feel his body past his neck — Bilbo can do nothing but watch as Gollum creeps closer, brandishing a large rock. When it descends onto his skull, it’s a relief.

Next time, Bilbo clutches a nearby goblin for dear life. The stench of years spent without bathing, bad breath, and foulness that clings to all creations of Morgoth up close is worth enduring as the goblin cushions his landing. Flesh meets stone with a meaty thud. Bones crack like twigs — _snap, snap_. Shuddering, Bilbo scrambles off and melts into the shadows, hiding behind a rock formation, its surface glinting in the barest hint of light coming into the cave from above. The smells of fungus, mushroom, and a tang of fish assault his senses with the strongest déjà vu. His stomach hurts with phantom pangs of hunger. _Not now,_ Bilbo thinks. _Not ever again._

He gets the ring. It looks innocuous and friendly. His fingers curl around it as if they have their own will. Cool metal warms in Bilbo’s fist in moments. _Use me,_ it would say if rings could talk. _I wish to help._ _You want me._

 _Sauron,_ Bilbo reminds himself, shivering. _It_ ** _must_** _be evil_. He has to make a conscious effort not to fling it into the murky water of the shallow pond, leave it for Gollum. An odd possessiveness fills him like rain a barrel in a summer storm. There is a whisper on the edge of perception — if only he could concentrate a little more, he’d catch the meaning… He shoves the ring into a pocket with all the haste due to a scalding kettle.

_It must be evil, and it is. I must be cautious._

To find a way out, Bilbo riddles with the creature. Despite its pitiful appearance and obvious insanity, it’s smart, so very smart that Bilbo has to cheat.

“What’s in my pocket?” he asks with daring arrogance. He wins. Of course, the creature cheats as well. It lunges. Bilbo catches a flash of bulbous, protruding eyes, too large in a gaunt face, and a mouth full of sharp teeth. He stumbles backwards. The ring slips on his index finger — _How? Why? It was in my pocket! —_ and Gollum’s hands pass him by a wide margin.

The creature stops. “Gone, my precious. Whats should we do?” it bemoans and answers in another tone, its whole demeanour changing, “finds him, yes, yes, we finds him and skins him and eats him, yes, yes, my precious, we wills. Gollum, Gollum.”

Bilbo freezes, barely daring to breathe, his heartbeat Horn-call loud, almost deafening. Muttering to himself, the creature continues its search, but soon its target changes.

“Precious! Gone, stolen, my precious!” The creature’s scream echoes in the cave. “Thief! Nasty, filthy thief! Catchs him! We will catchs him, we will!” And Gollum rushes into an inconspicuous passage.

 _This is it,_ Bilbo thinks. His feet slapping the cold, wet stone floor, he runs after the creature. A whiff of fresh air tickles his heated skin. A while and five turns later, the weak sunlight brightens the end of the narrow tunnel. Bilbo can almost taste the sweetness of an escape when Gollum stops, pivots around, its spindly arms outstretched toward the walls, and jumps right onto Bilbo.

Bilbo stumbles. Invisible or not, he isn’t incorporeal. The creature bites his neck and with a vicious snarl rips out a chunk of flesh. Hot agony makes Bilbo clutch the injury, releasing his grasp of Gollum’s scrawny forearms. The creature smiles, its mouth — a terrible gash of bloodied, pointed teeth. Its pupils dilated so much, they eat the irises.

“We gots him, precious. We gots the thief, and now he will _pay_. Gollum, Gollum,” is the last thing Bilbo hears as a razor-edged pain blasts into his skull along with a sharpened rock.

Next time, Bilbo dives for the ring as soon as he and his goblin cushion land. It slides on his finger, and Bilbo senses eagerness not his own. Huddled in the deepest shadow, he waits for Gollum to notice the goblin. The urge to stab the creature in the back is so strong, he finds his hand on the Sting’s hilt… and lets it go like a hot iron’s handle. His other hand is curled in a fist.

 _This is not me,_ he thinks. Cold sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. _It isn’t right._ When did he start with such unhobbity behaviour? His stomach drops. He glares at the ring. _No, you don’t. No tricks and no mind games. I’m on to you._ The ring continues its innocent act, but Bilbo knows better now. He promises himself to never listen to the almost-there voices. He leaves the caves with Gollum still alive, its mutterings about the stringiness of meat between the sounds of its chewing follow him out.

Rejoining the Company, Bilbo dares to hope that the worst part of the journey is over. Alas, the orcs catch up with them.

“Not trees again,” he mutters, earning bemused looks from Bofur and Kíli. _Of course,_ Bilbo thinks with a touch of bitterness, _it didn’t happen. Not this time._ They rode to Rivendell and left the ponies there — the mountain road is too treacherous for the gentle beasts.

Things go downhill from there. Knowing quite well how high wargs can jump, Bilbo has scaled the pine to its crown. He hasn’t considered that it could be uprooted. He chances a glance into the chasm. Pale moonlight illuminates the distant plain below. The sight makes him dizzy, and vertigo momentarily overcomes him. Another warg adds its weight to the already overburdened tree. The trunk swings down. Bilbo’s arms give out. He drops into the abyss. The rush of wind, its feel against his skin and sound in his ears are depressingly familiar. His scream echoes off the cliff wall all the way to the ground. It is not a pleasant death if any of them are.

Waking up, Bilbo bangs his head against the headboard. Eyes tightly shut, he lets a string of vicious swearing escape the confines of his mouth. Glancing at the portrait of his parents, he winces. Bungo’s warm brown eyes radiate disapproval. “Sorry, Father.” His mother would have understood and — probably — approved.

With a sigh, he wows if this _“adventure”_ is ever over — _when_ , he reminds himself — to never ever not for a million cakes or Aunt’s Isabelle apple crumble pie recipe climb anything higher than a chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: starting this story, I didn't check [The Hobbit Timeline](http://lotrproject.com/thehobbit/map) and was sure that the quest lasted longer and, well. Ahem. Let's say this is an AU where Durin's Day is in winter.
> 
> Bilbo references [the Shire Calendar](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Shire_Calendar#Months_of_the_year_and_special_days). Mid-year's Day is June 22. The months follow the lunar cycle. Afterlithe is approximately 24th June to 23rd July; Halimath — 23rd August to 21st September.
> 
> If you spot a mistake, especially a wrong tense, please, let me know.


	5. Chapter 5

The next cycle goes well right until they reach the cliff. Bilbo has no idea how to avoid the falling pine accident. When he hears wargs howl, he wipes his clammy palms on his breeches. There's a patch of dried mud on his left thigh. It stains his skin. With a grimace, Bilbo rubs it off on his jacket. He needs to wash it, anyway.

“Can’t you do something?” he asks Gandalf even as the wizard calls out for the Company to move. “Magic up a barrier?”

Gandalf’s frown deepens. He purses his lips and spares Bilbo a glance. “It doesn’t work like that.” Turning to the dwarves, he shouts, “Up to the trees!” Another glance, and seeing Bilbo’s dithering, the wizard says, “Bilbo, climb!” He hurries to show how to do it by example, his long beard getting in the way and catching on the bark, much to Gandalf’s mounting irritation.

Around Bilbo, the dwarves defy logic and his expectations by jumping and reaching high branches as if propelled by an invisible force. It looks like their reportedly dense bones weight nothing.

The soles of his feet feel the tremor of the earth before he hears a growl. Chiding himself for being distracted, Bilbo turns to the sound. A snarling warg bounds right at him. The warg leaps. Bilbo doesn’t know how, but Sting is in his hands, thrust forward as an only defence against the enraged monster. Their gazes lock. The blade slides into the warg’s forehead, gliding through the bone like a hot steak knife through butter. Something vital goes out of the warg’s eyes. The momentum forces Bilbo back several steps, even as it drives the dagger deeper. The monster slumps and falls backwards, tugging Sting out of Bilbo’s hands. Mouth slack and eyes wide, Bilbo stares at the impaled animal. His pulse is thundering in his ears. He feels feverish, hot and cold at the same time. A lone thought bounces around in his otherwise empty mind: _It shouldn’t have worked!_

“Bilbo, _climb!_ ” Gandalf’s shout snaps him out of shock. He grabs the hilt of the dagger and has to brace a foot on the dead body to pull Sting out.

“They are close!” Thorin says, voice harsh like a week-old bread on a parched tongue.

Bilbo looks around, turning his head so fast that short strands of sweat-soaked hair whip him across the temples. He is the last person on the ground.

A warg pack descends upon him like a tidal wave.

“Damn it!” Bilbo screams, bolting out of bed. He kicks the bed frame, stumbles backwards, and jumps on one foot, clutching the other and cursing through gritted teeth. The ache helps bury the memory of razor-sharp claws and hungry, yawning jaws. It stops impotent rage. Plopping onto the mattress, Bilbo sighs and says with feeling to the empty room, “I _hate_ wargs.”

* * *

Next time, he dutifully scales the blasted tree to its middle. The scene repeats with minor variations, and then a milky-white orc arrives astride an enormous white warg with which he bears an uncanny resemblance.

“Azog,” Thorin says the name like an accusation, three branches down from Bilbo. From what he can see of the dwarven king, even the fur of his coat bristles with indignation at the unfairness of Thorin’s sworn enemy being alive.

“I should have known,” Bilbo mutters over the Pale Orc’s dramatic exclamations, missing half of them. Not that it matters — he doesn’t understand a word of Black Speech.

With a shout and a raised arm swinging down, Azog commands his retinue of smaller orcs — still large compared to a hobbit and very ferocious, mind you — to attack. Wargs rush up at the trees, forcing the Company to scramble and jump from pine to pine like a… well, like wood elves, really. _What an insult to the dwarves it would be if I said that aloud,_ Bilbo thinks. There’s a distinct flavour of hysteria to this thought.

Once more, they end up on the pine growing at the edge of the cliff. Bilbo clutches the trunk for dear life. His cold, sweat-soaked shirt clings to his skin, and Bilbo moves his shoulders in a vain attempt to unstick it. Gandalf sets pine cones on fire and with a mischievous expression distributes them among the Company. A rain of blazing comets lights up the night. An orange lake blooms on the ground, forcing the wargs away. The heat reaches high, warming Bilbo if only just a little.

_This will be a bad death,_ he thinks, watching the flames devour the forest even as the dwarves cheer their short-lived victory. There’s nothing behind them and no way back. As if to drive the point home, their tree decides enough is enough and with an ominous crack extracts half of its root out of the earth. The scaly bark scratches Bilbo’s cheek, but he holds on. Only a trowel could pry him off the trunk.

With a deep moan, the roots give up more ground. Ori cries out, barely clinging to Dori’s boot as they swing above the chasm.

“Mister Gandalf!” Dori shouts, the branch he is dangling from creaks in his hands.

Fire licks the base of the pine, sparks flying and framing the wizard’s silhouette as he brings his staff for Dori to hold onto, but… It is too late. Like stone boulders, ’Ri brothers plummet to their death.

Azog’s laugh, low and deep, and full of dark, malicious amusement, overlaps Nori’s scream of denial.

Bilbo swallows. He knows too well the freedom of flight, cut short by a painful landing.

Azog says something else, the Black Speech lending his words a well of gravity, and Thorin gets to his feet and walks down the tree trunk. He stalks along the smouldering carpet in a cloud of sparks, following a path through the sea of fire. His sword glows with pale blue light, a falling star trailing in his wake.

It’s all suitably dramatic, Bilbo decides, befitting a king’s confrontation with a sworn enemy.

Thorin starts running. With a mighty roar, he swings his sword. Bilbo hears sharp intakes of breath and holds his own. Azog spurs his warg to jump off a stone ledge and hits the dwarf in the chest with a mace, knocking him down.

_That,_ Bilbo thinks, _could have gone better._

Thorin stands up only to face another hit. The warg clamps its jaws around his torso, and Thorin screams. Bilbo shudders, his body aching with an emphatic pain. A branch cracks. Familiar voices shout words in Khuzdul. Another member of the Company plummets into the misty abyss. The warg tosses Thorin’s body away like a used chew-toy. Something in Bilbo rebels. In a fit of insanity, he finds himself running to the fallen king’s side.

He tackles the orc who is about to cut off Thorin’s head. Quickly, before he loses the advantage,Bilbo stabs the orc, piercing him between the ribs. Panting, he gets up. Blood rushes in his ears; black liquid drips off Sting’s blade. It looks like tar and not quite real in its glow.

Bilbo turns.

Azog smiles. The deep, crisscrossing scars gauged into his cheeks contort, marring an almost pleasant expression, inasmuch as an orc can look pleasant. In the corner of his mind paying attention to such things, Bilbo is distantly surprised that this particular orc managed it at all. The rest of his thinking capacity is overcome with chanting, “Oh, damn, damn, _damn!_ ” all thirty seconds left before an enormous mace crashes into the side of his head.

Waking up, he swears to never engage in such foolishness again but does it anyway this very try: without Thorin, the quest will fall apart.

He considers warning the Company or, at least, Gandalf about their pursuers but in the end doesn’t see the point. There’s no way to hurry up their departure from Rivendell. He can’t very well just come out with the message written in moon-letters he has no right to know about beforehand. Trying to sell it as ‘premonition’ will deplete even Gandalf’s not inconsiderable credit of trust. At the same time, Bilbo can do nothing to avoid their involuntary visit to Goblin-town. He _needs_ the ring —he _must_ destroy it. He hopes that some small difference will allow the events to play out to a better outcome.

Some things change. Dori catches Gandalf’s staff, but his boot slips out of Ori’s hands. It takes Bifur, Balin _and_ Dwalin to hold crying without restraint Dori back while Nori talks him down from jumping after their youngest sibling.

Others stay the same. As Thorin lies prostrate before Azog, Bilbo finds himself in the same hopeless position: alone against a horde of snarling enemies. He swings his blade with clumsy, untrained hands without finesse or even a hint of technique, his tired muscles aching with the effort. Two orcs jump backwards, avoiding the enchanted steel, but their leader laughs with honest amusement. The sound ties Bilbo’s guts in knots. Straining his ears, he hears Thorin’s breath, raspy and stilted.

With a bellow of rage and heartbreak, Dori charges into the scene, crashing a warg’s skull with a flail and slashing its rider’s chest open with a sword. Dwalin follows not far behind, his axes a whirlpool of death leaving only corpses in his wake.

Licking his lips with sandpaper-dry tongue, Bilbo stands guard over the dwarven king for another moment. For when he stops toying with his prey, the mace of the Pale Orc is swift and without mercy.

Bilbo wakes with an angry, wordless shout on his lips, his heart lodged in his throat and hands and feet cold despite the summer heat. Blindly, he finds the pretty green vase with painted grapevines sitting on his nightstand and hurl it at the far wall. Shards sprinkle the floor, exposing the white ceramic innards in the jagged, sharp edges. Bluebells and daisies lie in a puddle, their delicate stems broken on the impact. The fragrant aroma is overpowering and almost sickening in its intensity.

Shoving the blanket off, Bilbo stumbles to the open window and gulps clean, untainted air.

“I shouldn’t be so foolish. I’m not a Took!” he berates himself. Except, of course, he is.

From the portrait, Belladonna gazes with fond amusement. _You aren’t fooling anyone, my dandelion,_ her eyes say. The painting blurs, familiar faces gain life going out of focus. Bilbo blinks the sheen of tears away and drowns in a fierce longing. He would have gone a hundred, thousand, a hundred thousand repeated lives only for a handful of moments with her, alive and vibrant and full of laughter and light and endless courage. Bilbo wants to hug her so much, his hands shake. He bites his lower lip until it bleeds.

He is, indeed, a Took, but also, as Bungo’s voice reminds him with gentle firmness, he is a practical, sensible Baggins. This evening, as soon as Dwalin introduces himself, Bilbo asks the former Guard Captain for sword fighting lessons and isn't surprised when the dwarf just stares at him, stalling in the doorway.

“Bilbo Baggins, your host for the night and, hopefully, a burglar for the duration of the Quest. Come in, the food is ready,” he adds, which prompts the dwarf to finally step into the smial.

“I’m not at all familiar with a sword, but as I understand it— leave your boots here, please,” Bilbo says, gesturing at a rag beside the door. “The journey to the Lonely Mountain is long and perilous, what with orcs, goblins, and wargs, and all sorts of other unpleasantness we will surely meet along the way.” His speech starts brightly and ends up in a mutter as his gaze clouds. What else will the Valar throw at their path? “Oh! And you can place your axes on the rack by the window. I put it there for this very purpose.”

“All right,” Dwalin says, wide-eyed; his eyebrows have climbed far up his forehead and risk encroaching on his head’s territory. He looks Bilbo up and down, evaluating his stature and lingering on the evident roundness of his middle. “We do have a little time before we reach the Lone-lands.”

“Don’t worry —” a smile stretches Bilbo’s lips, awkward and ill-fitting like an old, stretched out shirt that has been passed down from older siblings until it reached the youngest in a typical Shire family of ten “— I’m a fast learner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings* _This is the fic that doesn't end, the neverending fic._  
>  I planned to wrap it up in three chapters, under 4-5k words. Now, I don't even know. *sigh*  
> As usual, please round up mistakes for the firing squad in the comment section. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for sticking with me for so long!


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo doesn’t become a proficient swordsman overnight. Not even over the course of the weeks leading up to the first skirmish with the orcs. He buys a dagger from a blacksmith in Bree, a plain steel plank with a wooden grip made for larger, Man, hands. It’s heavier than Sting and not at all attractive, but while Dwalin, Nori, and Fíli disparage its make and quality in a dissonant chorus often and with relish, it suits Bilbo’s purpose.

Dwalin calls him for their first training session the evening after they leave Bree. Leading Bilbo to the side of the camp, he stops with his axes held in deceptively lax fingers.

“I am your enemy. Attack,” he says without emotions. Backlit by the fire, with his face cast into shadows, it isn’t hard for Bilbo to remember how Dwalin fights, the way his eyes burn with berserker rage while his upper lip curves to reveal white teeth. The image causes Bilbo to shudder. He isn’t keen on confronting that side of the dwarf. He licks his lips and adjusts his grip on the dagger, holding it in front of his chest at an angle. The blade sways.

“Right. Yes. Attack.” Bilbo lifts the dagger over his shoulder and aims a strike at Dwalin’s midsection. It doesn’t work.

He isn’t sure what happens next, but a moment later, his wrists sting. Several members of the Company chuckle. As Thorin walks past, he glances at Bilbo and shakes his head, his lips curved into a disdainful sneer. Cheeks burning with humiliation, Bilbo picks up the dagger.

“Again,” Dwalin says, calm as an underground pond.

Bilbo lunges. Dwalin catches the blade between the axes and sends it flying.

“Ten coppers say he’ll give up before Bombur’s stew is ready,” Fíli murmurs, not caring or, perhaps, not expecting Bilbo to overhear, but the sound of his voice fills the lull of conversations’ and carries across the clearing like the tolling of a bell.

Kíli slaps his brother’s hand, oblivious to the attention their bet is gaining. “You are on.”

“Eyes on the opponent,” Dwalin says. “Try to land a blow.”

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo tries again and ends up on his back, weaponless. The dagger is lying in the dirt before the gathered spectators. His tailbone hurts, his wrists smart; the dwarves are outright laughing. Bilbo’s face grows hotter. This is not what he had in mind asking for help. Snorting, Fíli nudges the dagger with his boot. The blade slides for several feet, raising a dust cloud that settles on Bilbo’s legs.

Bilbo gets up, shifts his weight from foot to foot, rolls his shoulders. He hears a dull sound and an indignant, “Oy!”

“This is no way to treat a weapon,” Thorin snaps.

“I’m sorry, uncle,” Fíli says.

Dwalin watches Bilbo with no visible reaction, his dark eyes serious and calm. “Remind me, how long ago did you stop falling on your arse every other second, lads?” he asks, directing the question at the shamefaced youth.

Again, it's Thorin who speaks. “At least, the halfling is willing to learn.”

The laughter stops entirely. Bolstered by the unexpected support, Bilbo refrains from snapping _I am not half of anything_ sitting on his tongue. Biting the inside of his lips, he takes a deep breath. _I can do it. Just land a hit. Show them I’m not worthless._

He feints and dives under the dwarf’s arm and catches his forearm with the tip of the dagger.

“Good,” Dwalin grunts.

Bilbo stops and stares at the blood welling up in a thin, red line, uncomprehending. He didn’t expect to succeed. A cold, hard weight presses across his throat. His gaze follows the length of a muscled arm covered in coarse black hair to the base of an axe handle resting against his Adam’s apple.

“And you are dead,” Dwalin says. “Do not get distracted.” He steps back, and Bilbo nods.

“You must be sure of your intentions. Don’t hesitate,” Dwalin continues. “You are fast and nimble. Use it to your advantage.”

Bifur rumbles something in Khuzdul. It sounds like a suggestion. Dwalin must agree with him, for he inclines his head and tells Bilbo to sheathe the dagger for now. The lesson moves to footwork.

By the time Dwalin calls for a halt, Bilbo is ready to fall asleep standing. He is a fair dancer and had spent many festivals twirling and jumping in specific sequences to merry tunes, but without music and the overall excitement of a party, the repetitive movements, the constant back and forth of fighting stances are monotonous and boring. It taxes him more than any physical exertion ever did. He does commit the steps to memory and plows through on sheer determination. He _must_ learn, and so he will. There’s no choice about it.

The royal siblings find him just as he crawls onto his bedroll, not bothering to open it properly.

“Mister Baggins?” Fíli says, for once getting his name right. “May we speak with you?” His voice is quiet and tentative. Next to his brother, Kíli is fiddling with a strip of leather.

Sighing, Bilbo forces his body to sit up. He rests his hands on his knees. “How can I help you?”

“We wanted to apologise for our behaviour. It was unbecoming of us,” Fíli says, looking at him with earnest, remorseful eyes. Kíli echoes his statement.

 _Eru, they are still children,_ Bilbo thinks. Barely out of their tweens by hobbit standards. They were young when he went on this quest for the first time. Now, the gap between their ages and his makes Bilbo feel ancient. “You are forgiven.”

Twin sunny smiles light up their faces. They thank him and, after wishing good night, Kíli scampers off.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks when Fíli fails to go away and leave him in peace.

The dwarf fidgets, tugging his moustache braid in agitation, and offers to be his sparring partner.

“All right,” Bilbo says, not needing to think about it. He will accept all the help he is offered.

The following days, they train every evening. Dwalin raises an eyebrow at Fíli’s appearance. The younger dwarf smiles, saying he could use the practice, and stands next to Bilbo. They go over the footwork and move to basic offensive and defensive moves while Bilbo’s toes are squelching in the mud and Fíli is making a passable impression of a drowning rat. As Dwalin puts it, _War waits for no one._

A week before they reach Trollshaws, Nori melts out of the shadows to stop beside Dwalin. At first, he just watches, eyes sharp and curious, reminding Bilbo of a fox. A hint of a smirk lurks around his mouth as he plays with a throwing knife. Then the suggestions start: widen your stance a hand’s width; bend your elbow farther; knee him in the balls, then jab him in the kidney. Slightly regretting it, Bilbo ignores the last advice but follows the rest.

Dwalin’s jaw twitches every time the thief spots something to correct first and beats him to it, and Nori’s eyes twinkle. _It is a game,_ Bilbo realises, _that only Nori’s playing._

“It feels a little like one of Amad and Uncle’s arguments. Only with less yelling and nobody has hit a table yet,” Fíli tells him later when he brings Bilbo a bowl of soup and a chunk of hard bread. They practised evasive moves, and Bilbo’s _everything_ is bruised and aching. He has no doubt the taste of dust won’t leave him for a fortnight.

With a sigh, Bilbo resigns himself to months of being caught in the middle of a conflict that nobody is willing to acknowledge. It must run deep under the surface, like roots of buckthorn. In all the repetitions, this is the first time he actually notices it.

“Better not get involved then,” he says. There isn’t anything either of them can do to resolve it, anyway.

All drama aside, Bilbo does improve as a fighter. Which is precisely why he dies in the first real confrontation. He gets overconfident.

Bilbo doesn’t know why some cycles the orcs follow Radagast and others they pursue the Company. If there is a pattern or a reason for it, he hasn’t found it yet. In any case, this time, the orcs catch up with them faster than usual.

Snarling and barking, the wargs nip at their ponies’ heels. Ahead of Bilbo, two riderless beasts go for Ori’s mount; the smell of blood gushing from its leg drives the wargs into a frenzy. The orcs holler commands in Black Speech, and with a detached resignation, Bilbo realises the words are becoming familiar. Unsheathing Sting, he spurs Myrtle to go faster.

The dwarves do their best to fend off the attack while in the saddle. A warg goes down with an arrow spouting out of its eye socket and crushes the orc rider under its weigh. An orc slumps forward with a knife sticking out of his chest. To Bilbo’s right, Bifur utters a war cry and fells an orc _and_ a warg underneath him with one slash of his boar spear.

But slowly, the wargs surround them, forcing to slow down. Ori’s pony, mad with pain and fear, rears up and hits one of the wargs with its front hooves. Two arrows pierce it in the side. The pony screams, white foam bubbles at its mouth, and Ori flies backwards, his arms windmilling, a startled look on his face. He lands, awkwardly twisting his wrist, and lets out a pained yelp, but dwarven bones are strong. They aren’t easy to break.

Without a second thought, Bilbo urges Myrtle to stop and jumps down to help, standing over Ori like he did with Thorin. His pony bolts, drawing several wargs away in pursuit, and Bilbo feels a pang of regret. Even without him weighing her down, Myrtle isn’t fast enough. _Not now,_ Bilbo thinks, _I will mourn her later or not at all._ He concentrates on the fight and thrusts Sting at the approaching warg’s head, catching its snout with the tip of the blade. The warg retreats a step, and Bilbo follows, arm poised to slash its neck, but as he does so, he leaves his back exposed. A fierce pain bores between his shoulder blades, then—

Bilbo wakes up. He rubs his face and sighs.

“That will teach me _situation awareness_ ,” he says, quoting Dwalin. “All right, no more unnecessary heroics.”

This time, the Company meets elves before the orcs give up on Radagast as an easy target to chase the dwarves. Bereft of retribution, later, Bilbo accepts Gandalf’s flaming cones and flings them at the wargs, feeling vindictive pleasure every time they hit the mark.

* * *

It takes five more tries to finally move past the cliff debacle. Four more traumatic deaths, each at the hands of Azog. Sometimes, Bilbo is not sure he is still in his right mind. On darker nights, he knows he isn’t.

He asks for lessons each repetition. His teachers vary. Sometimes, it is Bifur who joins Dwalin, others it’s Nori or Dori. More often than not, Fíli volunteers to be his sparring partner. Bilbo is glad for it — he grows fond of the young dwarf. The aches and pains of getting his body into a fighting form all over again every time are frustrating, but like everything else, he learns to accept them.

Bilbo gets more skilled, and that, along with his tenacity, earns him respect. It’s subtle. Bilbo only notices it because of his past lives, and thus he treasures the Company’s regard all the more. The dwarves are quicker to include him in their conversations. They even insist on Bilbo sharing their room in Rivendell, which is, of course, ridiculous — it is the last place they could be in any danger.

The first time it happens, Bilbo agrees, feeling a warm glow of acceptance. Even Thorin doesn’t glare his way quite so much. He soon regrets this decision, however. Watching the Company break beautifully carved furniture for kindling makes him ill. He tries to stop them, but his entreatments about laws of hospitality meet laughter and teasing. The dwarves continue destroying chairs and tables with ever-increasing enthusiasm, and Bilbo throws his hands up. His hobbitish nature rebels against such a slight to their hosts. As he stalks out in search of other accommodations, Bombur skins a fat rabbit Kíli shot in a picturesque copse of deciduous trees. Bilbo can’t help but wonder if they are about to eat someone’s pet.

* * *

On the fifth cycle, Bilbo finally lives long enough to see Gandalf’s escape plan come to fruition. Given enough time, anything will lose potency, and listening to Azog’s speech is no exception.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo says, looking at the sky and contemplating praying for patience. “You are a big, bad orc, here to kill us all. _We get it_.” His grouchy tone causes Kíli and Fíli sitting at the nearest branches to smile though fleetingly. The brothers’ eyes are wide, the lines around their mouths are showing strain.

_The kids are scared._

The scene unfolds as it always does and ends with Thorin lying like a broken doll amid the enemies and Bilbo slaying the same orcs and wargs he did before with frightening familiarity. And Eru, how many more times should he kill them all over again before they stay dead? Cut, stab, pivot, slash, dive under a swinging arm and stab an orc between the ribs, jump back, evade, roll under… And so it goes. He is a quick and motivated study.

As no one falls off the tree this time, the dwarves join Bilbo quicker. They storm into the fight, cutting the orcs down with the force of a spring hail flattening wheat crops. Soon, Dwalin scythes the way to his king, distracting the Pale Orc from Bilbo.

No matter how good they are, however, the members of the Company are at a disadvantage. For every dwarf, there are five orcs and almost twice as many wargs. They cannot win without loses. But then, the eagles come. Piercing cries fill the air and lightning-quick shadows fall onto their enemies to snatch them up and toss them off into the abyss. It all happens so fast, Bilbo can only watch in disbelief.

_It can't be so simple._

The tide is turning, but for whatever reason, instead of letting the Company finish the fight, the eagles swoop to pick up the dwarves. A giant yellow foot descents on Bilbo, enclosing him in a bony cage. The ground rushes off, and Bilbo panics. He screams and flails, convinced his heart will burst. It is too much, too fast, too unexpected. The eagle’s claws constrict, and pain lances Bilbo’s stomach.

For him, the hours of the flight stretch into days as Bilbo swims in and out of consciousness. The lighting changes. The sun awakens, tinting clouds pink on the horizon. When the eagles land, Bilbo is only half-aware of Ori giving him water. He tastes copper on his tongue.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Oin says, patting Bilbo’s hand. The dwarf’s skin is papery and cool against his own. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“It is all right,” Bilbo tries to say but is unsure if he is successful. He coughs and smiles with bloody lips. _Not long,_ he thinks. “I’ll just start over.”

And soon, he does.

* * *

“This is getting ridiculous. Now even Manwe’s eagles are against me?!” Bilbo exclaims with disbelief. He isn’t even angry. “That’s it.” He climbs out of bed and looks at the ceiling. “You hear me? I give up. I quit. Find someone else to toy with. This hobbit has earned a vacation.” He nods. “Yes, that’s right. You heard me, whoever you are. I am not playing your game anymore. I’m done.”

He used to enjoy walking holidays lifetimes ago, he distantly remembers. With so much practice, Bilbo gathers supplies for a week-long stroll in under ten minutes. An hour later, he pins a notice saying, “Went on an adventure,” to his door, borrows a fishing rod from Hamfast and heads west to the Water. He always wanted to start fishing.

Upon returning, Bilbo finds himself at loose ends. Idling about Bag End, filling his hours with books and dishes he often missed on the road leaves him restless, uncomfortable in his own skin. And after prowling the smial for a few days, picking up and putting down his mother’s dollies and his great aunt’s glazed decorative plates, the things that meant so much but now don’t, Bilbo packs his bag once more. He craves action.

He spends the rest of the time until reset learning archery with the Bounders. And every time he aims at a target, Bilbo imagines a large feathery face with sharply curved beak and cunning golden eyes. He never misses.


End file.
